


The Haunted Mansion: Of Stories and Songs

by Infinite_Hours



Category: Haunted Mansion (Ride)
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, And I will warn at the beginning of the chapter what specific things are showing up, Blood, Death, Domestic Violence, Drug Abuse, Gen, Ghosts, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Sexual Harassment, Light Horror, Many of these warnings are VERY chapter specific, Suicide, These things do NOT show up in every chapter, You can assume that ghosts and death and/or death related concepts will be throughout however
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-26
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 20:13:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27202288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Infinite_Hours/pseuds/Infinite_Hours
Summary: Two teenagers, Karen and Mike, are traveling home from a date, only to be waylaid by a mysterious storm. Which forces them to take shelter in an equally mysterious mansion, face off with a mysteriously invisible Ghost Host, and then try to find their way back to town without "mysteriously" losing "some body" in the process. Whose body? Why theirs, of course!  Loosely based off of Disney's old audio book, Story and Song of the Haunted Mansion .
Kudos: 1





	1. Prologue (Overture)

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings (for the entire fic) : ghosts, death concepts/discussions, murder, suicide, abuse, blood, lots of scary stuff (horror), implied sexual abuse, cursing (damn and hell), drug abuse, domestic violence, attempted rape (never completed; in a later chapter). 
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS IN THIS PARTICULAR CHAPTER: It's mostly just going to have ghosts, death, murder, brutal murder, hanging references, and alcohol. Brief violence and references to blood. 
> 
> This is a story loosely based off of Disney's old audio book 'Story and Song of the Haunted Mansion'. 
> 
> I already had most of these chapters written and put up in other places on the internet, but I am working through editing them and putting them up here as well for Halloween. 
> 
> Please do not go looking for old versions of this fic, as I may end up editing plot points. I'm not sure yet though. This story has audio files and also occasionally pictures I drew. I hope I can get them to work correctly on AO3
> 
> This chapter in particular has an audio file. The audio file is mine. I made it. You have to open the link to listen, as I might have to link it to a tumblr post.
> 
> I do not own the Haunted Mansion, Disney does. I only own my own characters, many of whom whose personalities I've developed from scratch (because let's be honest, Disney did not give us much to go off of). Please DO NOT repost this story anywhere without my permission.

**Prologue (Overture)**

_"No live organism can continue for long to exist sanely under conditions of absolute reality; even larks and katydids are supposed, by some, to dream."_

  
–Shirley Jackson, The Haunting of Hill House

~~~~

It was a silver flask.

Probably not the first thing that would be in the forefront of your mind. And already, I'm sure, you must be asking:

_Is it magic?  
_

To which I will say: No. It was nothing more than a flask used to hold drink. Often the strong kind.

And then you might ask:

_Is it beautiful?  
_

To which I must say: Why, certainly not. It was small, barely holding 3 ounces, and had no decorations whatsoever. No set initials, no carvings or gems set into it, nor even a bit of polish to hide the jutting pewter layers that betrayed the idea that it was of pure silver.

And by now, you must be thinking:

_Is it important?  
_

Perhaps to some.

But to you?

To this tale?

I would hardly think you would notice it missing beyond this chapter.

And you must surely be a little irate now. 'Why ever would I want to read about boring flasks that are neither magic, nor beautiful, nor important?'

Ah…but you see, my friend. All of us have such knickknacks in our lives.

Our little baubles.

Our collections.

And while these things, by themselves, may not necessarily spark the events that shape us as people, they _do_ often bear witness to them.

Mementos of our first steps.

Our first job.

Our first kiss.

Weddings, anniversaries, funerals, murders…

Who we are…who we aspire to be…our dreams, our goals, our past and the promise of our future…

We cling to these items because they represent these times. A physical reminder we can touch…evoking the feelings we have for those we care about…an embodiment of our memories.

Who would we be in life, without our memories?

…Who would we be in death, without some token to leave behind?

After all, what _are_ gravestones, if not markers for the living to remember the dead?

Yes…this particular item was well worn and used, and much beloved by its owner; a man that clung it to himself as any thief might cling a nugget of gold.

He was a plain looking man with a plain look about him. A goatee, a mustache, brown hair, brown eyes. Plain clothes and a plain hat. In the light of day, he might have looked like anyone else, perhaps even an upstanding citizen, albeit one that never won popularity contests. But in the dreary dead of night _at the cemetery of an abandoned mansion_ , with his back hunched over and his eyes always shifting to look behind him? Even the most righteous of people would look suspicious.

A quick drink from the silver flask for courage, and the man creaked open the cemetery gate, lugging behind him a burlap sack and, inexplicably, the large case to a concert contrabass.

Once he chose a friendly spot among the gravestones, he took out a shovel from the sack.

For the longest time, he dug in silence. The only noises he made were the sound of shifting earth, accented by the occasional pause by which he took another swing from the flask. He spoke no sound, but it was just as well, as there was no one in sight for which to speak to.

No one…in _his_ sights….

….One foot…

………...Two foot…

………………..Three foot…

Somewhere, deep in the bowels of the mansion, a grandfather clock struck midnight, and the echoes of its chime, remarkably, could be heard all the way through the cemetery. The man paused in his labors to listen; it caught his attention not just because it was strange for there to be a working clock in an old mansion, but because of the song it played. It sounded vaguely the same of the Big Ben chime, the usual song any respectable grandfather clock would use, but it was warped and distorted as though the clock had grown tired of telling time.

(Listen to the audio file here. You might want to right click and open a new tab:  
<https://infinitehours.tumblr.com/post/186922808855/this-is-for-the-prologue-chapter>)

Little did he know, for he was nowhere near the clock to see it, that this grandfather clock was…special. It had eyes. It had teeth. It had a tail, it's pendulum, swinging gently with each second. And its bony fingers graced a face that held thirteen at its height. An impossible thirteen hours. As the chimes finished counting out their marks, the fingers began to move…. _backwards_.

They started slow, but, with every passing of the thirteenth mark, they grew faster.

And faster.

_And faster._

And all around the halls where the clock stood proudly, the walls seem to vibrate in delight. Doors seemed to open on their own; the very air seemed to trill with excitement.

But of course, the man could not have known of any of this, as he was firmly in the graveyard, busy once again with digging.

…………………..…. Four feet…

…………………………………… Five feet…

………………………………………….……….Six feet…

A crow grabbed at his hat, right as he stood to drink again. He made a valiant effort to grab his precious flask, but it was no use. The flask fell to the ground, the little bit left emptied.

The crow perched at the edge of the hole, puffed up with pride and eyeing the man gleefully.

"Stupid crow," He muttered, hopelessly shaking the flask to his ear for any signs of leftovers.

"Stupid man," The crow croaked back at him.

The man glared at it. "I won't look so stupid to you when I get back up there."

"Caw caw-You will, you will. When they catch you, little fool. Caw caw."

He'd heard of crows mimicking words, but holding actual conversations?

"Oh, but if _I_ catch _you,_ my feathered friend." He began the tumultuous climb up the sides of his nicely dug hole. "I feel as though I should light you on fire. Do you know I could roast you so thoroughly, no one will ever know what you once-"

A green dress.

"…were…."

There was a green dress in front of him right as he hoisted himself up the edge. As his gaze drew upwards, there was a matching green striped apron. And upwards again, there was a face.

"Good evening," The girl said, quite pleasantly.

He swallowed thickly. "Good evening."

She seemed a child, but perhaps too old for his sense of ease. Teenagers that just turned adult were the worst brats, but at least she didn't look threatening. Curious, perhaps, in the way she stared at him, head cocked to the side. Strange, perhaps, in her clothes and how the rain never quite fell on her. But most certainly not threatening. Dark brown hair that was cut neatly just as they reached halfway down her neck. In contrast, her bangs were messy and clumped in three, long, uneven strands, but at the very least they did not reach far enough to impede the view from her startling, brilliant blue eyes.

"What are you doing all the way out here?"

"I could say the same, girl. This isn't a place for children to play games. Run along home."

"I _am_ home. And I'm not playing games….Yet."

He hoisted himself the rest of the way up and stared at her harshly. "Didn't your parents ever teach you not to lie?"

"On the contrary, they taught me _how_ to."

"Ha! Tell me, where in the hell are your parents that they let you run around in the middle of the night, dressed like that, at an abandoned house."

"They're dead," She said, matter-of-factly. "And I'd rather not consider them to be in hell, thank you very much."

"Oh." He made himself busy with the latch on the case. "My condolences. I don't envy them that."

"You won't have to. Would you care for a drink?"

The offer was sudden, but it was enough to perk the man's attention. His hand hesitated on his contrabass case, before he made the slow, tentative effort to open it. Inside the case was another burlap sack, wrapped loosely around something (or somethings) so that they were undiscernible. He gave the object a poke in several places, as if assuring himself that it was still there, before clamping the case shut quickly.

"…What _sort_ of drink?"

"Name your poison." She said, smiling in a disconcerting, daydream-like way.

The man reached to feel for his silver flask, empty but safely tucked in his inner coat pocket.

"…I've always been partial to gin. But I don't suppose a little girl like you carries around alcohol, especially visiting a place like this."

" _Au contraire_ , good sir. We happen to have a few good bottles, unopened, from 1883. I wonder, sir, if that might hold your interest…?"

"Ha. You've got to be joking. You've got a bottle that's made its way all from the eighteenth century?"

"Nineteenth." She corrected, "And yes, we do."

"Whatever century, that's got to be nearly a hundred years old. That's quite a find."

"If you say so."

He quirked an eyebrow. "Once you get older, I think you'll better appreciate the quality of an aged drink."

" _Of course_ , sir. I do hope you'll allow me to lead you inside, so that we may provide to you the very best gin we have."

There was an odd twitch in her smile, which made him suspicious that she was keeping something from him. His gaze was drawn back to the case.

"I assure you, your…case will be left undisturbed."

The call of the drink was stronger than his desire to keep the case secured… There seemed no one here except the two of them. Surely no one would touch it, the man thought. …and yet….

"It's coming with me."

He put the effort into hoisting the contrabass case onto his back once more.

She made an elaborate display in opening the door to the house and bowing to him to enter, which he did after shifting the case around.

"Follow me, please."

She took a nearby lit candelabra, an ornate thing that had carved monsters and five candlesticks. As he followed behind, he considered the girl once again. Something was strange about how she moved, how she dressed, how she seemed perfectly at ease in an eerily empty house that she was likely squatting in. But she didn't seem to have any weapons on her person, despite the air of confidence she emanated; not a hint of an anxiety in the way she carelessly walked in front of him, not once looking behind to see if he would stab her in the back. Perhaps _that_ was what discomforted him.

This child had no fear of strangers, and the man could not for the life of him tell whether he should be wary of this fact.

"Is it far?" He asked, not at all liking the idea of having to trek through a whole mansion _and then_ finish his digging.

"The parlor isn't, no. At least, not at this time. You aren't afraid of the dark, are you?"

"'Course not. Only children are….are afraid of…"

The strangeness in the air had magnified gradually as they walked. The eyes on the portraits seemed to follow his every move, but only out of the corner of his eye did he ever notice.

"…I'm not afraid of the dark." He said, resolutely. He whipped his head at the latest portrait, intending to catch it in the act of spying, but froze as he stared at it.

_Because his own face was staring back at him._

It was the very painted image of himself, and his hat, in front of a building that was…

…

" _Where did you get this from, girl?_ " He hissed at her.

"Get what?" She said, in that infuriating innocent tone of hers.

He turned angrily at her, nostrils flaring.

"This! This portrait of me! How do you know about this… _this_?! What happened back then-Where did you get this from?!"

"A portrait of you? Here?" She came to take a look.

But when he went to present it to her, his face and the building were gone. Instead, the visage of a man, quite impossibly tall and with a gnarled face, stood in the frame. Each of his eyes was unique, and each of his hands held something unique as well; in one was the end of his long noose, and in the other was a sinister looking axe.

"… _Is_ this you?" She said, incredulous, "It doesn't look much like you. If it is you, you certainly did a good job cleaning yourself up, as the man in this portrait looks rather downright ugl- _ouch_."

His mouth was still agape when he turned to witness her sucking her finger.

"I _guess_ I deserved that." She said, smiling at him with her finger between her teeth. His alarm and confusion was still a little hard to gulp away.

"Candlewax," She said. "Shall we continue then?"

"But the portrait…" He eyes darted back to it, daring it to change again, utterly at a loss as to what to do about it.

"Could it be that you've had too much to drink already? That you're seeing things that don't exist? Perhaps I should _withhold_ the gin from you…"

The man hesitated, and tried to consider the logic.

The incident he _thought_ he saw in the portrait happened ages ago. He had a solid alibi, the police never once considered him a suspect, and half the community didn't even remember him when he passed through years later.

Nobody looked for him, nobody knew it _was_ him; why on earth would a girl in the middle of nowhere half the country away know anything about it?

Perhaps the stress had taken its toll…

And then there was still the one-hundred year old gin.

"Let's continue," he said, motioning for her to continue on. "I must…I must just be imagining things. It's been a long night."

And surely, the man thought to himself, he could still kill her if she blackmailed him.

"I'm sure. Right in through here."

The parlor was a small room, as many old parlors were, but it was far too cold for comfort. Between the couch on the one wall and the three cushioned seats surrounding the fireplace, it was perhaps only designed to comfortably satisfy, at most, ten people. The far opposite wall of the couch had a three tier, long bookcase and a service table replete with glasses and decanters. The mantelpiece was decorated with a long mirror above it, and cherubs that no longer looked angelic carved into the wood. His throat grew tight simply looking at it.

"I do apologize for the lack of light," The girl said, placing her candelabra up on the mantelpiece. There was still something so very odd about the way she moved. "We don't have much firewood at the moment. If you'll sit down, I'll pour you a drink mister…?"

He waved her off. "It doesn't matter. Call me whatever you'd like, girl."

"A pleasure to meet you too then," She smirked, "And you may call _me_ 'Nell'. I'd prefer it to _girl_."

He huffed, unloaded the burden of the contrabass case, and took his relief in the cushions of one of the fireplace facing seats. They were still soft, despite looking like antiques that ought to be in a museum.

"Do you mind someone to drink with?"

"You're too young, _Nell_." He said, flatly, rubbing his arms to get some warmth.

"Oh no, not me. It's just that the Master was wanting to see you, and he's certainly not one to pass up a good drink."

The man couldn't tell if she was serious or not and eyed her funny.

"'Master'…? Who is this 'Master'?"

"Someone who doesn't like gin."

He laughed. A short laugh that gave off his unease, as the tightness in his throat was still there.

"Sure. Sure, if he isn't drinking any of my gin, _by all means_."

"Well then, your drink, sir."

She handed him an unopened bottle of 'Collison's Gin', dated 1883 in its feeble looking, plain tag.

"Heh. The best service is a fast service."

"I do try."

Between his chair and the empty one to the left of it, she placed a slew of items on the end table. First was a unique looking glass that had a bulge straight in its middle. In it, she poured to the top end of the bulge a liquid that was of a sickly green. Next, she placed a strange looking slotted spoon over the lip of the glass, and a white cube (sugar?) on top of it. Finally, she added a clear liquid, steadily pouring over the cube so that it dissolved and the rest of the glass was filled. Almost instantly, the green clouded into a murky white.

She noticed him staring. "It's the Master's favored drink, and it needs to be prepared very specifically."

The man swallowed, the tightness beginning to irritate him. There was something so _very_ 'off' about the girl, even up close, and he had yet to put his finger on just what it was.

"Tell me, what brings a respectable gentleman such as yourself out in the middle of a cemetery attached to, and I quote you, 'an abandoned house'?"

The man took a long swing of his newly gotten goods, contemplating on just what to tell her.

"You know the old mine to the east of here?"

"Sightseeing at Big Thunder Mountain? I'm sure a lot of the buildings of the town of Rainbow Ridge still stand, though I can't imagine there would be much to see."

He paused. "Last I heard, the town was called Tumbleweed…"

"It's been called many things over time. _Haunted_ would be another."

"I don't much believe in silly superstitions. The miners back then were just out of their depth in trying to rake a twisted forming mountain."

The girl laughed, her shadow dancing in the light of the candles in an unnatural way.

"Perhaps you _should_ start believing in superstitions. You never know, sir, just what sort of place you'll end up at. Better late than never…But, may I ask, does this mean you wish to try and re-open the mine?"

"There's gold to be had. Plenty of it. If others want to avoid claiming it, that's all well and good. More for _me_."

"Is it gold that you have in that case of yours that you were burying?"

He hesitated. He had hoped she wouldn't have brought up the subject of his case; that she had just forgotten about it, despite its presence in the room.

As he took a slow and steady drink, letting the alcohol linger and burn, he looked towards the 'Master's' glass.

_…It was empty…_

He nearly choked on his sip.

"That…the glass. That 'Master's' glass…"

Nell turned to it. "Oh. Dear me. I must have forgotten to pour the Master's drink. How _silly_ of me."

He watched, the goosebumps creeping, as she painstakingly repeated her earlier actions.

Pour the green liquid up to the top of the bulge.

Balance the slotted spoon on its lip.

Put the cube on the spoon.

Pour the clear liquid over the cube.

With each action, his throat tightened more, and he fiddled with his collar to relief the pressure.

"Now, where were we?" She said, returning to him. "Oh yes. Tell me, what brings a respectable gentleman such as yourself out in the middle of a cemetery attached to, and I quote you, 'an abandoned house'"

The hair on the back of his neck stiffened and prickled. Hadn't she just asked this question?

"You…you know…the old mine…to the east…"

"Sightseeing at Big Thunder Mountain? I'm sure a lot of the buildings of the town of Rainbow Ridge still stand, though I can't imagine there would be much to see."

"T-tumbleweed…" He sputtered out, correcting her.

"It's been called many things over time. Haunted would be another."

"Don't believe…No superstition is going to stop me…Not the earthquakes or the flash floods they say about it…"

_"Or the runaway ghost trains?"_

He fiddled nervously with his collar again.

"Perhaps you should _start_ believing in superstitions. You never know, sir, _just what sort of place you'll end up at._ Better late than never…But, may I ask, does this mean you wish to try and re-open the mine?"

The tightness in his throat irritated him again…and then he heard it.

Slow and mournful, a musical voice. A human voice. She was singing, singing so beautifully and slowly and mournfully that it sounded like the lament for a loved one long since dead. The hallways carried her chime-like, enchanting voice very well, although the echoes made her sound like an unearthly creature.

"What is that?" He whispered to the girl, mesmerized.

It was the most alluring sound he had ever heard in his life.

"What is what?"

"The singing…someone is singing…Who else is here?"

"No body is here. Except, of course, the ones we ourselves dragged here."

"The singing…Beautiful singing…I-"

He froze, as if remembering something, and twisted his head around back to the 'Master's' glass.

His stomach dropped, the singing stopped, and the goosebumps multiplied down his back.

_The glass was empty again._

"The…the glass…" He managed to sputter.

"Oh. _Dear, dear me._ I must have forgotten to pour the Master's drink. How _silly_ of me."

Bulge. Green liquid. Spoon. Cube. Clear liquid.

"So tell me, what brings a respectable gentleman such as yourself out in the middle of a cemetery attached to, and I quote you-"

 _"Just what are you playing at here?"_ The man spat, trying to work himself towards a rage.

"Playing?" Nell asked, her clearly faux look of innocence infuriating him more.

"What do you take me for, hm? You've filled that glass three times, _asked that same question three times._ "

"Have I really filled the Master's glass three times _already_?" She asked, and her faux innocent smile twitched to a smirk. "And to think, after all these years, the Master still has a drinking problem."

The room began to shake, bristling and threatening to topple over the candelabra. The man held onto his seat, a gnawing worry in the back of his mind that maybe the stories about Big Thunder and earthquakes were true. But the rumbling stopped almost as soon as it began.

"Now you see?" The girl said. "A true gentleman can easily show his discontent by giving the room a little shake… _not pouring hot wax on me._ You should take notes and follow the example."

 _"What are you talking about?"_ The man was on the very end of his seat, nerves galore, as the girl hadn't even been _looking_ at him.

When she did, though, a layer of surprise clouded her face, as though she had briefly forgotten he was even there or perhaps didn't think he would comment.

"Oh. My apologies if you thought I was talking to _you_."

He couldn't take it anymore. In mere seconds, the man had the girl up against the side of the mantelpiece, the blade of his three inch folding knife against the pretty little girl's pretty little throat.

"Now you listen here, _girl_ ," He hissed, "I've played house with you long enough. You better start wagging that tongue of yours and tell me what in the Hell's going on around here or else I-"

_HE WAS BACK IN HIS CHAIR.  
  
_

It had happened so fast, it was almost a blur. At one moment, he had the girl's life in his very hands while she stared, unconcerned and without a trace of fear, back at him. The very next moment, he was being driven back by a powerful and invisible force; powerful enough to send him sailing through the air and crashing firmly back into the chair.

He sat there shaking, trying to get up again. But an unseen heavy weight kept him anchored against the cushions, his knife somehow lodged into one of the creepy cherubs out of his reach.

"My, my, my," Nell sighed. She looked unconcerned by men flying through the air, just as unconcerned as she had been when he had held his knife against her throat. "And here I thought we could all be civil about this. But I suppose that was too much to ask from someone like _you_."

"Someone…someone like me-?" He croaked out as the tightness in his throat got phenomenally tighter.

It suddenly occurred to the man that tightness wasn't the result of nerves.

She took hold of the candelabra once more.

"You aren't here for gold…"

She stepped closer to him.

"You don't care for riches…"

With every inch made towards the man, the man felt his neck tighten even more.

"And you don't give two wits about Big Thunder…"

She stood directly in front of him as he struggled for breath.

It was like a rope…

A rope that had been pulled tighter and tighter around his neck this entire time, and he only just started to pay it heed.

But as he struggled and gasped and scratched at his throat, there was nothing there.

There was never anything there.

"L-l-ll-little b-b-bi-" he heaved.

"Insulting the woman you just tried to kill? It won't do you much good from where you're sitting, but by all means, keep digging your own grave. You've already dug a physical one for us. That was so very kind of you, by the way. Did I ever thank you?"

The man could no longer speak. He was forced to glare at her instead.

"No, someone like _you_ isn't much interested in mines. And I can especially understand why you might be uncomfortable with 'silly superstitions'. I mean, given what you've been up to these past few months."

The man's eyes grew wide.

"Oh, don't look at me like that, good sir. I know someone who knows things. So much so, that I happen to know what's _really_ in that case. …And it most certainly isn't gold from Big Thunder Mountain."

He tried to resist the invisible restraints, wanting more than ever to run.

"No. What's in your music case is far worse than gold, isn't it? And you've been worried that people were going to come looking for you because of what you did. You would kill to keep that from happening. ….And you have killed, many times. Yet in your attempt to get away, you've made one very fatal mistake…"

She loomed over him, the light source in one hand. And in that terrible, terrible moment, he _finally_ realized what was strange about the girl.  
  


Her shadow was too tall.  
  


Her shadow was too impossibly tall and thin. And, though the girl was holding a candelabra, her shadow _was not_.

It was holding something much different. Longer and thinner, with a bladed edge.

His terrified eyes flicked back to the girl. Something about her demeanor, the smile that grew on her face, suggested that she knew what he was thinking. That she knew what he'd just noticed.

"For someone who doesn't believe in 'silly superstitions', you seem to have great faith in the silliest of all," She said, her smile wide as she held a finger to her lips,  
  


_"Did you honestly believe the dead tell no tales?"_  
  


The candles in her hand went out, plunging everything into darkness.

The sensation in his neck grew tauter, and he reached out, grasping, yearning for anything that might bring relief.

_Take the axe and cut the rope Take the axe and cut the rope Take the axe and cut the rope Take the axe and cut the rope-_

Chanting. The chanting in the room grew mind numbing. Something heavy was in his hand.

He could feel his fingers growing colder. The world becoming fuzzier.

He knew what he had to do.

_Take the axe and cut the rope Take the axe and cut the rope Take the axe and cut the rope Take the axe and cut the rope_

With the last of his strength…as he still struggled for breath…he swung the heavy object in one fell swoop towards his neck.

But there was no rope. There was nothing there.

There was nothing there.

There was nothing there.

There was nothing there but flesh and blood and the remnants of the man's final screams.


	2. Ch 1: Miss Jackson

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is kind of the “boring chapter”. If you were entertained by this chapter, then I can promise you it will be smooth sailing from here. Literally all other chapters are more exciting. Yet I still need to have this chapter because it sets up quite a few plot points. 
> 
> This fic is based off of The Haunted Mansion “Story and Song from the Haunted Mansion” audio. It will also be based deeply off of my first impressions of the ride itself when I was a kid going on it those first few times in my life.
> 
> If you’re wondering why there isn’t much description on our two main mortals, it’s because I felt it best to leave that up to the imagination (there was never much description in the original either). I know I can’t get away without descriptives for every character though, so I’m not going to try for that, but hopefully it wasn’t too jarring.  
> Also, Mr. Mortimer is meant to have a sailor-like accent, but I don’t think I’m very good at writing accents. His does come off as unique, and I think it adds to his flavor so I want to keep it even if I did not get the sailor accent quite right. 
> 
> The quote at the very beginning “Have you ever seen a haunted house? Etc” is actually taken directly from Story and Song of the Haunted Mansion. Of course, I had to edit the ending a bit so that I could tie it in to my own story...
> 
> There’s supposed to be an audio of the Big Ben chime (to parallel the demonic clock. Kind of like, the demon clock represented the dead, and this town clock represents the realm of the living), but I can’t currently find a way to create this audio file. So. Imagination I guess. Or look up the Big Ben Chime on a Youtube video and listen to it right when you are prompted in the story (it would read something like “the big clock chimed 6”). You don’t have to though, so don’t feel like it’s required. :)

**~~~~**

**Ch 1: Miss Jackson**

_Have you ever seen a haunted house? You know the kind I mean. That old dark house that’s usually at the end of a dimly lit street. The windows are broken and boarded, and the shutters hang loose on their hinges. The trees have grown wild, their branches brush against the sides of the weathering house making strange noises in the night. There’s a high vine-covered fence around the property. Is it there to keep somebody out, or is it there to keep something inside? It’s a house that people avoid walking past at night. Strange sounds come from within the walls, and it’s said that eerie lights have been seen both in the attic window and in the graveyard at the side of the house._

_Seen, at least….by some…._

_Our story revolves around this mysterious mansion…._

_But I’m getting_ **_a-head_ ** _of myself…aren’t I?_

_So let me ask a different question…_

**_Have you ever been chased?_ **

~~~

He was panting the whole way.

Round the corner where the pastor liked to play his accordion.

Over the iron wrought fence that blocked off the alley from the cars.

Through the double doors of the unused library.

Out the back.

Through the nook by J. H. Thomas’ shop.

And over the broken manhole right to the berry-red bench in the tiny cranny. 

Michael knew the route like the back of his hand, spent every day of his life traversing it. Or, at least, every day of his High School life, which was the only important part of your life you considered when you’re fresh faced and under twenty. 

But they were right behind him, he could swear they were, thumping along and hollering; you could only run for so long. The clock of the church chimed from somewhere a ways away, in Big Ben style; Six PM. 

He jostled a trash can on his way, half-heartedly hoping that it might slow his pursuers down as he rounded the corner. The relief that flooded him when his target, a bench, came into his sights was a thankful feeling

For all of five seconds.

Then he was yanked back by his collar, just out of reach of his fragile safety net. Falling to the hard concrete, three faces loomed into his view; three black leather jackets swarming around him and his red hoodie like vultures around a recent bloody kill

Jacob Matheson. The head vulture, front and center, grinning over his recent (and recurring) victim.

He was the son of the owner of the largest retail store in town, which earned him a bit of a celebrity status in the sleepy rurals of northern Virginia. And the only reason he was de-facto leader of the little gang of friends he hung out with. 

“What’s your hurry, huh?

Michael grimaced as a boot came down on his chest

“I…ugh. I was just on my way back home..

“ _Liar_. You live other way.”

“What’s the super special occasion?” Another boy said. “We never see you out anymore, Mikey-Wikey. You wouldn’t go off without at least saying ‘hi’, would you?” 

“Our feelings might get hurt. You wouldn’t want _that_ now would you?”

Michael refused to answer that, wincing as the toe of the boot dug deeper into his ribs

“So how you going to make it up to us, huh? How much you got on you?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re a _really_ terrible liar, Mikey.” Jacob gestured towards the others.

Two seconds later and they pried Michael’s hands off of his pockets to start their rummaging

“Nice. A whole twenty.”

“There’s more than that! What’s this?”

The other boy held a keychain, twirling it around on one of his fingers. It had a soft-plastic football attached, only a tad smaller than the size of a fist.

“That’s _mine_. Give it back!” Michael lunged, yet the boy had already tossed it to another.

The three jeered and danced around him, taking turns with the keychain.

“Ooh. Almost got it that time”

“Gonna practice your jumping skills with us, huh?”

“Good dog!”

“Go get it, boy!

“You think we can teach him to beg?”

“You want it?? You want it?? HA!”

Jacob was last to receive, and Michael turned to him in irritation. “You have my money. You played your little game. Can you just leave already?”

“I don’t know. We just got here.” A murmur of agreement. “What are you doing with this thing anyways? Pining for the good ol’ days when you were still on the team?”

“Aw, Jacob. Can’t you see he misses playing?” One of the other vultures said.

“Oh. I’m sorry. Did I say that too soon? How long’s it been? Four months? Five? Got your leg all healed up nicely?”

One of the boys pretended to make a pass at his left leg, causing him to jerk into the defensive. Jacob flashed a grin at the sight.

“Still not in tip top shape, huh? Considering what happened, playing with this little football is probably the closest thing to a real game you’ll ever going to get for the rest of your life. But don’t worry, Mikey.”

Jacob’s little wicked sneer only grew smug.

“I’m sure the rest of the team will do just fine without you. You were _just the water boy_ , weren’t you? Most benched player ever in ol’ Hightower High School. Quite the honor.” 

Michael gritted his teeth; he never cared too much about playing football, but he also didn’t need to hear this.

“But you can come play with us any time. _We_ don’t mind that you’ve got a bum leg. In fact, how about you go long right now?”

Jacob pulled back with a sinister little smirk and a clear intent to throw it straight to the roof of the nearby apartment building. Unfortunately for him, the football was snatched just before he let it loose.

“Wow, what do you know? A real life wannabe biker gang in their native environment.” 

The football’s new owner was a welcome sight. A pink sweater, a black skirt with an embroidered horse, a white blouse, and the look of someone who had just ate a whole bag of sour gummy worms (Jacob and his gang tended to have that effect on people). 

“Ugh. It’s the girlfriend. Go away, Karen. Nobody invited you.”

“As if I _need_ an invitation to rain on your parade. If you’ll give back the money that _I’m sure_ you stole, we can be on our way and I won’t have to tell anyone about this.”

A speck of realization later and Jacob was staring at Michael with an even wider grin than before.

“Wait, is SHE why you came out of your house? Date night? OooooOOOoooooh. _Kissy kissy._ ”

The boys started making smooching noises, prompting Karen to let out a sigh of frustation.

“Mr. Vance! Mr. Vance! The jerks are back and they’re threatening your customers!”

“Whine all you want, what’s that old geezer even going to d-“

“Come over here, Mr. Arrow. There’s a bit of vandalism I think you ought to look at.” A much older man in black stained overalls came seemingly from out of nowhere, seemingly gesturing for the **_chief of police_** to follow. Jacob’s face dropped.

“Scram!” Jacob said, not even waiting for his friends before booking it straight out of the alley. They were generous, at least, if only in the fact that they threw Michael’s money back in his face. 

Mr. Vance watched them retreat and let out a long, drawn out sigh. “You kids okay?”

“As good as can be, I guess.” Mike said.

“Thanks for pretending for us, Mr. Vance.” Karen said.

“A little lie goes a long ways sometimes. I only wish I _could_ convince an officer to hang around here. Could do with a little less thieves. Those three are gotta get their comeuppance _sometime_.” 

“Yeah?” Mike grabbed his keychain. “I’m still waiting for that to happen.”

“Might come sooner than you think. Well…come in then. I’ve got your package in.”

Mr. Vance took out his handkerchief and wiped his brow; the wrinkles that lined an otherwise middle aged face seemed particularly discernable that evening. Coupled with the silvery threads of his hair, anyone who didn’t know any better would have had the man pegged for a senior citizen. But he was very much in his early forty’s, at most, and the reasons for why he looked so aged had often been the subject of discussion in town.

Especially considering that his store was easily one of the most important places around. 

The big retailer shop that lay in the heart of town was nice, but they often didn’t carry specialty items (and didn’t appreciate you asking to order them). That was where Mr. Vance and his store came in. Sure, it was tiny and cramped, and there was always a heap of unsightly broken bits of rusted metal in the corners near a large creepy portrait of a woman holding a skull, but there was so much of the place that was filled with mysterious and old objects, books galore, and more candy than you could ever possibly eat in your entire lifetime. The man had no organization to speak of, so whenever a person cared to carouse the shelves they were almost guaranteed to find something wondrously unexpected. 

Karen loved it here. As much as Mike liked old nick-knacks himself, it was mostly for her sake that he stepped foot inside time and time again. Whenever she would examine a row of clocks or ancient utensils or even the words on the spine edge of a book, her whole demeanor would brighten up. And he loved watching her when they were there; she would always hold a smile on her face as she delicately traced a finger over things that were several times her own age. 

Currently, she seemed distracted with an old timey animation device. He couldn’t remember for the life of him what the things were called, but they consisted of a cylinder with slots for viewing, and had an image painted all around the insides. The images were slightly different, so that when the cylinder was turned quickly it would simulate movement. Animation.

Unfortunately, the one that Karen found seemed to be broken. She couldn’t get it to spin, the painted crows were forever stuck in place…

“M-miss Jackson? I’m so sorry, I didn’t see you there. You’re here….early.” Mr. Vance said.

Mike looked up….the air somehow felt… _colder_ as his eyes fixated on the lone figure standing in the middle of the room.

The _strangely dressed_ lone figure standing in the middle of the room, who was most certainly _not_ in the middle of the room a few seconds ago. 

A deep green dress like a thick moss on a dark forest floor, with a pinstripe blouse and matching apron. Dark brown hair and vivid blue eyes were part and parcel of a face that oddly looked both amused and bored all at once. And the bit of frill and bow on the top of her head seemed to so wonderfully match her attire yet be so terribly out of place in a modern day setting. 

She looked like a maid. An old-fashioned maid. A very _lost_ old-fashionedmaid, considering that there were no buildings nearby that were large or rich enough to need to hire one. 

“My…. _employer_ …” There was surprisingly nothing strange or unusual about her voice, “…is rather anxious tonight, so I had hoped to present to him the items I had ordered. If you happen to have them ready, of course.”

“Y-yes…Yes. You…you wouldn’t happen to have come _alone_ , Miss Jackson, would you?”

The girl smiled wistfully. “Are we ever _truly_ alone?”

Mr. Vance visibly gulped. “Right…of…of course not. I-I-I got your package right here. Oh..Michael?”

Mike tore his eyes away from the woman back to the shopkeeper. Mr. Vance’s demeanor seemed….suddenly different. His face had gone a little pale, and there was an almost imperceptible waver in the way his voice cracked. 

“Would you…would you mind waiting a bit while I wrap up Miss Jackson’s items here?”

“Uh…Yeah, no problem.”

“Thanks.”

Mike headed over to where Karen had been curiously watching the whole exchange. 

“Is there a costume party we weren’t invited to?” He asked her jokingly, earning a smile.

“She looks…kind of familiar. Like I’ve seen her around…just…not in _that_ getup.”

“Yeah…I feel like I’ve seen her around, too. But I don’t think I’ve ever spoken to her before…”

She turned back to the animation device….and found it….spinning. Ever so gently. 

The painted crows began to flap their wings, rhythmically in time with the cylinder.

But then…faster. And faster. And furiously faster still, until the image was a seamless representation of the act of flying.

“Mike….” Karen said, the nervousness clear in her tone. The device was _not_ electronic, yet seemed more than willing to move completely on its own. 

Even he was a little hesitant to touch it, yet his mind was made up when he could feel the warmth of her fingers clinging to his. 

_Clap_. His hand clamped down on it. When he let go, the device obediently remained still. 

“Heh.” Mike’s laugh was more nervous than amused. Karen’s hand squeezed his again. “Must be off balanced or something. Speaking of spooky, though, did you check out the way Mr. Vance was- ”

“Are you going back to the cliffs?” _The voice behind him interrupted._

Mike spun around to find himself face to face with the strange woman. Up close, it was more obvious that she couldn’t have been more than a few shades older than either of them, despite her rather timeless attire.

“Yes….we are…” Karen anxiously responded, “But how did you know that?”

“I’ve watched you go up there. The house I stay in happens to be nearby.”

“Where?” Mike butted in, “The only buildings up that way are all abandoned or mostly destroyed. It would be kinda hard to live in any of them. It’s pretty much a ghost town.”

“Yes…” The woman said, a faint smile on her lips. “Yes, you’re right.”

He couldn’t tell what she meant by that. Was she saying that she _wasn’t_ living in any of those buildings?

Karen coughed. “Um. Well I like your dress. The green looks very pretty on you.”

“Oh thank you. I think so too. It also makes my employer uncomfortable and likely brings up awkward memories for him. Which is the other reason why I wear it.”

He and Karen exchanged a funny look. He couldn’t tell which was odder, the fact that she purposely wore something just to make her employer uncomfortable or the fact that she just casually dropped this information to complete strangers like it was a normal subject to talk about. 

“Miss Jackson? Your items…” Mr. Vance interrupted. 

“Of course.” 

The shopkeeper seemed to hesitate as he handed her a bag full of several individually wrapped parcels. 

“One of these…you do know one of these things on your list is…”

“Illegal?” The young woman didn’t mince words or even flinch, which is more than what Mr. Vance did in response, “Technically it’s _not,_ if people only bother to read the law anymore. But yes. I’m well aware. But as _you_ are quite aware, my _employer_ is not concerned with legal matters…Anymore.”

“…I’m well aware.” He softly said.

“Will I see you later then?” The young woman said as she turned to leave.

But Mr. Vance kept his head turned away from her and firmly on a broken clock in front of him, eventually squeezing his eyes shut as though he could will her away.

“…Have a good evening then, Mr. Vance.”

“…Same to you, Miss Jackson.”

Before she left the shop proper, the woman turned one last time to Michael and Karen.

“By the way…Tom Sawyer’s road is the faster way back to town if you’re coming from the cliffs. And if you’re ever caught in an unfortunate rainstorm, please _do_ stop by. You’re more than welcome to hide under our awning.”

“We…never _go_ to the cliffs on a rainy day.” Karen said.

“Never say never,” With the twist of a tiny smile, the woman left the shop.

The atmosphere grew quiet. 

~~~

And it remained silent for a solid minute.

“…Hey Karen? You can get our stuff, right?”

“Wha-?”

Before she knew it, Mike had just thrusted the twenty in her hands and ran out the door.

“Hey…Mike!”

“What’s he doing?” Mr. Vance said, his brows furrowed in concern.

“I think he’s trying to catch up that woman. Who was she, anyway? I don’t see her often enough around.”

“That’s because she doesn’t live in town. That’s Eleanor Jackson. ‘Nell’ for short. She’s up near the cliffs.”

“ _Where_ near the cliffs?”

Mr. Vance handed her two glass bottles of crème soda and a heart shaped package. “I’m sure Michael would be very insistent that you don’t open it until you’re together.” 

Purposefully changing the subject.

“…And you said that women asked for something illegal…”

“Now don’t you repeat anything you’ve heard here…”

“I…I won’t. But is everything alright? If she’s forcing you to do something illeg-“

“ _It’s not like that_.”

It was said so forcefully and emotionally that Karen took a step back. 

“…It’s not like that.” Mr. Vance said, softer this time, “But you should go and stop Mike. Nothing good will come of him following after Nell like that.”

Package and soda in hand, she started to do just that.

“Karen.”

She paused.

“…Don’t always trust Nell. She often only gives you half of the truth.”

With that statement freshly turning in her head, Karen went out into the alley looking for Mike.

He didn’t get very far; right around the corner he looked up at her sheepishly from the ground, while a friendly face tried unwind a long bit of fishing line. 

“I tried catching her, but…”

“I think I ended up catchin’ a young ‘un instead.” Mr. Mortimer flashed a grin at her before untwisting the hook from Mike’s jacket, “You ain’t quite the fish I be looking for, lad.”

Mr. Mortimer was a fisherman. Probably by trade, too, as that’s the only thing she’s ever seen him do. He always had a fishing pole in one hand, his trusty (but _peculiar_ _looking_ ) tackle box in the other, a smile on his wrinkled face, and a song on his lips. Very few people in town could ever say that they hated the man, even though he did always smell like fish. 

He was also frequently wet, as he claims he never had good balance and constantly fell in. She had no doubts about that. The sight of him trudging around soaked in the frigid air….She often felt freezing just looking at him….

“Are you alright, Mr. Mortimer?” Karen said, offering to help him up. His hands were ice cold, as usual. 

“Aye I’m alright, I’m alright. No harm done,” With Karen’s help, he stood steady on his feet again, “But tell me young ‘un, what had you such ‘n a hurry? Who were ya chasin’ after?”

“Some lady we saw at the shop.”

Mr. Mortimer flashed him a joking grin. “Chasin’ after another while you got your young lady here?”

Karen snorted.

“Hey! No! That’s not what I meant! Karen!” Mike didn’t find it as amusing as they did, and gestured her to help him out.

“Mr. Vance said her name is Eleanor Jackson.”

Mr. Mortimer’s eyebrows rose in recognition. 

“You know her?” Karen asked.

“Aye.”

“Did she come down this way?” Mike said.

“Sorry, young ‘un, I didn’t see anyone but yourself.”

“But I could have sworn she turned here…”

“She be a sweet girl, no doubt. But you’re best off not followin’ her home, for your own good.”

“Mr. Vance said something like that…” Karen said.

“He be a smart one. Is he in today?”

They nodded. Before they could say anything else, Mr. Mortimer bid them good day and went off to the shop. 

Avoiding their inquiries.

“Mr. Vance didn’t want to answer any questions about her either…”

“Everyone’s acting funny about her. I don’t get it.”

“Well…let’s not worry about it anymore. I really want to go to the cliffs tonight before it gets too dark,” She shook the heart shaped parcel slyly, “What’s in the box?”

“Three guesses,” Mike grinned.

“Hmmm,” She held it up to her ear and closed her eyes, as though she could somehow divine the answer, “Caramel chews, sour worms and…black licorice gummy bears?”

“Right on all three counts!”

“Do I get a prize?”

“Do _I_ count? Or are you still mad at me because I went ‘chasing’ after someone else?”

“I _guess_ I can forgive you,” She said coyly, giving him a peck on the cheek.

They walked off together, hand in hand, too distracted with each other to notice the growing storm clouds overhead….

Storm clouds the weatherman never predicted.

Storm clouds that never moved from their position above the woods that led up to the cliffs. 


	3. Ch 2: Come On In (And Make Yourself at Home)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Story and Song of the Haunted Mansion is an audiobook much like a campfire story. It’s short, it’s sweet, and it’s not meant to have in-depth discussions or thorough characterizations. Karen and Mike were caricatures of the typical hero/heroine of the time; Mike is clearly the braver one in the original. While Karen is frequently scared. Common stereotype back then. But I thought I would play with this a bit and come up with more of a reason for why Karen was much more frightened…
> 
> Yes, that is indeed my terrible artwork. I apologize for that. It's based off an old sign that Disney long got rid off. I only saw it once, and I can't find the picture anymore. 
> 
> And for those of you who wondered why I made the house on Tom Sawyer’s road instead of Liberty Square or New Orleans Square, you get your answer here…
> 
> The beginning quote “One Autumn night, not long ago, two teenagers were walking home from a date…” is again taken directly from the original audio book. There’s also a few more lines that Karen and Mike say when they first enter the mansion that were also taken directly. I thought it would be a good Easter Egg.
> 
> Speaking of Easter Eggs, there are several more here that you might notice if you’re a Haunted Mansion fan with a lot of knowledge around the ride. I’ll list a few of them here (don’t read these if you don’t want to be spoiled and want to find them yourself!):
> 
> 1\. It’s become something of a tradition for the cast members to leave a single rose on a particular grave (Master Gracey’s grave, to be exact). This tradition is more common at Disney World’s mansion than it is at Disneyland’s mansion.  
> 2\. Brick building with a glass room versus Southern Plantation with four white pillars: this is a reference to the fact that the Florida (Disney World) mansion looks much different than the California (Disneyland) mansion. The Florida mansion is a brick building with a visible conservatory (the glass room), while the California mansion is more like a Southern Plantation.  
> 3\. The Aging Man portrait being in the foyer is a reference to the Florida Mansion’s set up. The ring found outside has quite a bit of fanlore (too long to explain the story here), and is also found at the Florida mansion  
> 4\. Yes, that is Madame Leota’s gravestone whom Karen thinks is watching them

~~~

**Ch 2: Come On In (And Make Yourself at Home)**

_One Autumn night, not long ago, two teenagers were walking home from a date…_

_~~~~_

“I hate it when strangers are right.”

Karen tried to peer at Mike through the thick sheets of rain that seemed to endlessly descend upon them. “What do you mean?” 

“That girl. Whatsherface; Nell. She all but told us it was going to rain tonight.”

“Maybe. But she wasn’t terribly clear about that, was she?”

Even though both held their own jackets above their heads, she could still feel cold water creeping down her back. 

“I can’t even see the way back to the road. Can you?”

“There’s a sign up ahead!”

“Where?”

“Up there!”

The two of them trudged on, practically swimming at this point. The lightning bolt that flashed against the sky, with the thunder not far behind, was worrisome; they weren’t anywhere near town.

The sign that she saw, that she had pointed out before, was even more worrisome: it was old, with decaying letters, but it was more than enough to tell them exactly where they were.

**Tom Sawyer’s Road Ahead.  
Thunder ~~Mountain~~ beyond. **   
~~[Impossible to read]~~ **Mansion.**

**Whatever that was before the word “Mansion” was scratched off and replaced with “Haunted”.**

They were on _Tom Sawyer’s Road_.

“Did you mean to lead us in this direction?” Karen said, worried.

“Sort of. I was aiming for it; didn’t think we’d actually find it, though. That lady said it was faster, and I really don’t want to be out in this much longer, do you?”

Mr. Vance’s words came to the forefront of her mind. “You actually trust that she was telling us the truth?”

“Well…at the very least it’s a path better covered by trees…Less chance of getting electrocuted.”

She gave a wry smile, which was probably lost on him in the horrible downpour. It was lucky she could even see him at all. 

They smacked through the road a while longer, slick and muddy, their jackets doing nothing to keep their legs from getting drenched. 

“Oh good. Hey, Karen there’s a building up ahead. I think we should get out of this for a while….”

The first thing she saw when he said that were the lights. Pinkish, bluish, and greenish hues all encircling the outline of a very fine brick house, standing tall and proud against the rain. It was a very old, very large, and very fancy looking building that spoke of rich extravagance in a bygone era where being in a wealthy family line was the very height of social status; the true American aristocracy. 

The towering spires and glass enclosure on the side marked it as being different from the other debilitated rubble of the house they had previously passed on their way here. Different, too, in the notion of how…colorful the lights shining on the house looked. There was no accounting for why there should be a spectrum of colors fixated on this particular house; the lightning certainly wouldn’t have made it look that way. 

She opened her mouth to protest, wanting to mention how odd it was to see a house so clearly from so far away when they couldn’t even each other standing five feet apart, but he was already sliding down the slope to the gates and she felt compelled to follow along. 

The gate itself was almost as extravagant as the building. Iron wrought, with swirling twisted metal the likes of which you might find on old embroidery. It slowly swung open the very moment Mike’s fingers touched it.

There was a small cemetery out front. She’d visited a few old houses in her life and none of them ever had cemeteries in the front yard. She would have thought it would be off-putting to any guests invited over. Crooked and stained with age, they stood lonely against the bleakness of the dark sky, save for one. One of them had a fresh red rose that was so vibrant it could be seen even through the tears of rain. 

“I don’t think we should be here, Mike…” Karen said, eyeing the grave with the bust of a woman whom she swore had just been looking at her.

“I don’t think we have much of a choice. We can barely go through that muck of a road, never mind find our way back to town.”

She could hear him rattling a door handle. “What are you doing?”

“Trying to get the front door open. No one lives here… we can wait inside until the storm’s over.”

Karen slowly backed away in disbelief, the prickly beginnings of goosebumps dancing over her skin.

She knew very little about architecture, she would admit, but the house in front of her was not the same as the one she saw from afar. 

“It looks…different up close, doesn’t it?”

“Huh? I guess? What do you mean?”

“Before, it looked like a brown brick building. With a glass room.” She swallowed thickly. “…This is a white building, and the glass room is gone. It looks more like an old Southern Plantation home. With white pillars….”

“Pillars? What pillars?”

“The four giant ones. Right there! You’re staring right at one!”

“I’m sorry, Karen, I don’t see any pillars…”

“Stop playing around! You’d have to notice them, they’re right in fr-“

**‘ _Don’t trust your eyes’_**

She shrieked and spun around, unceremoniously ending up on the ground of slick cobblestones in the process. 

“What’s wrong? What happened?!”

“Someone just grabbed me! Someone just grabbed me just now! They grabbed me and whispered…and whispered…”

Even as she spoke, trying to get her breath in the storm, she felt unsure. Like the house’s changing architecture, there’s was something about the place that was…missing. 

‘Missing’…yes, that was the word. ‘Missing’ was the most apt description her mind could scramble for her; looking around in the rain for the source of the voice was like looking at a jigsaw puzzle with several pieces missing. She felt compelled to sit there, her hands wrapping around a little piece of something stuck in the ground. Something that she felt she ought to grab….a ring…?

“I don’t see anyone. And I don’t think there’s anybody here but us. The storm must be getting to you. Come on, let’s go inside.”

“Not me. I’m not going in that old house! I’d rather stay out here and get wet.”

“And electrocuted?”

As if to respond, lightning streaked across the sky, and the immediate thunder made it seem too close for comfort.

“Alright.” She said, forcing herself to get off the ground, “But we leave the door open. This place gives me the creeps.”

Someone had grabbed her. She was certain of it. To be sure, perhaps she had a bit of an active imagination sometimes, but she couldn’t have imagined the unnaturally cold hands that had clutched her arms, or the eerie sensation of hot breath against her ear. Like the house’s changing features, both were too real to simply wave away as part of her imagination.

_We really shouldn’t be here._

It was that thought that lingered as the two of them ventured inside, the door barely holding any resistance against them. It was uncomfortable how the giant pillars (real or imagined) felt like a gaping maw as if the house itself were ready to eat her alive. 

“Well I’ll be… this house is still full of furniture.” Mike said as he went to light a candelabra.

And indeed, there was furniture! A few chairs, a writing desk cluttered with papers and strange objects, a marble bust, a couch in front of an intricate fireplace, and a round oil painting framed by curtains. 

The inside was no warmer than the maelstrom kicking around outside, and there was something in the air….a dreadful feeling, like a suffocation, that clung to the items around them. She felt the feeling cadence as she went to trace a finger down the decorated wood of a nearby chair; not a single speck of dust upon it.

“It’s as though someone still lives here…” She muttered, half to herself, turning to look at the reassuring sight of the open front door and the pattering sounds of rain just beyond it. 

“Heh. You know all the rumors they say about these old buildings up here? Spectral people, strange lights. ‘don’t ever get lost in these woods or else’? If I remember correctly, one of these houses was the site of a bunch of suicides-“

“Knock it off, Mike! This place is creepy enough without you reminding me of all that.”

She tried to distract herself. Her fingers wrapped around the ring she had found outside. Old, yet not rusted. And with a generous diamond at its peak. It felt important somehow, as though she was meant to keep it for another time. She pocketed it.

“Hey Karen, come check some of this stuff out! A few of these documents say they’re from 1865!”

She could hardly hear him. Her gaze was transfixed on the painting in its prominent place above the fire. 

It was an old painting of a young man. His well fitted suit suggested an air of aristocracy about him, and his dark hair and sharply defined chin would have given him a very menacing look if it weren’t for his mouth. There was a faint smile on his mouth, so out of place with the rest of the portrait that it had to have been added by the artist out of complete irony. It was a striking portrait, for the beautiful blue eyes seem to stare directly at her, as though to peer into her very soul…

…And the portrait man was suddenly not smiling.

Or young.

She watched, unable to look away, as the man in the portrait began to seemingly age. Skin growing withered, hair growing gray, clothes fraying, until she was no longer staring at a man but a skeleton. A skeleton that seemed to leer at her as she backed away, slowly, fully intending to run out the door when thunder crashed quite abruptly. 

And she was on the floor. Again.

“Are you…are you okay?” Mike helped her up. 

“Yeah…” She said glumly. 

“You think we should break up? You know, since my presence seems to make your knees buckle all the time?” She could hear him snicker a little behind her. 

“Stop laughing! It isn’t funny,” She glanced back at the portrait, but sure enough it had reverted to its original state. That painted smile looked like it was mocking her.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” 

Yet he seemed to keep going; his laughter never quieting down. She turned to him to give him a piece of her mind, but his pale face said it all. 

He wasn’t responsible for the lingering, deep voice whose laughter currently echoed around them.

‘ _Hmm hmm hmm hmm hmmm’_

“Who’s there?” Mike demanded, eyeing the suspicious looking marble bust.

“Mike, look!”

The door to the next room inexplicably lay open, and in its inky darkness, in the center of the room, stood the shadow of a very tall figure. It stood, unmoving, unbreathing, and though she could not see its face she could not help but be sure it was staring right at them. 

_‘When hinges creak in doorless chambers,  
And strange and frightening sounds echo through the halls;   
Whenever candlelights flicker where the air is deathly still -   
That is the time when ghosts are present,   
Practicing their terror with ghoulish delight!’_

The voice was low and deep, speaking with the gravity of having all the time in the world.

“How is he doing that?” Mike said as the voice seemed to flit from one side of the room to the next.

“There’s no such thing as ghosts…” She muttered, trying desperately to reassure herself. But her mind was firmly recalling all of the strange happenings that only she seemed to notice, and the lingering chill on the back of her spine made her voice falter even as she spoke. 

_‘No such thing, hmm?’_

Her stomach dropped as the voice chuckled darkly.

_‘Well then…’_

With a bang, the couch was thrown back by an invisible force, giving them a clear view of the fireplace as it erupted into roaring purple and green flames. The lightning flashed, as though on cue, as the room flared up in the two dancing colors. 

_‘Welcome, foolish mortals,_  
to the world’s most Haunted Mansion.  
I am your host.

_Your…_ **_ghost_ ** _host.’_


End file.
